


Vignettes of Home

by Strange_johnlock



Series: Home [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, PTSD John, Parenthood, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Smut, Taking care of Rosie together, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 20:37:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19217083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: Sequel of 'Home is where the Heart is'John and Sherlock get what they deserve: A life togehter





	1. *explicit violence*

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Amelia, as Always <3

**JW**

Moving back into Baker Street went just as John had expected. He had taken a week off to turn his old room into a space for Rosie and to pack all their stuff. Seven boxes of Rosie’s clothes and toys, his own clothing, laptop and medical books, a few framed pictures.

The moving crew arrived at a Tuesday morning, and by midday, every box was carried up into the flat. John spent the afternoon building Rosie’s new bed and getting her stuff sorted. He might have gotten to his own clothes had Sherlock had any inclination of helping, but the detective had insisted on trying to teach Watson, as he called her sometimes, how to use the microscope, which had apparently taken all day, ice cream breaks not included. John didn’t mind. Any bonding between his boyfriend and his daughter was a good thing.

When he came downstairs, his two loves were demanding to be fed, so he ordered take away, before slumping down into his chair. A moment later, his lap was full of seventy-something kilos of consulting detective.

“You haven’t spent any time with me today.” He complained, and John had to kiss that lovely pout. He was allowed to do that now. Three wonderful months of kissing Sherlock Holmes.

“Daaddyyy.” Rosie called from where she was standing in front of the armchair and John discretely removed his hands from Sherlock’s bum to pick her up.

They only moved from their snuggling position, when the doorbell rang.

Mrs. Hudson joined them for dinner, and once the table was cleaned and the little one slept in her new bed for the first time, John and Sherlock settled onto the sofa together, with a bottle of wine.

John fell asleep, his head resting on Sherlock’s belly, his arms wrapped around him.

Those were the good days. Life was not always that easy.

 

 

* * *

 

**JW**

Three bullets.

One for Sherlock.

One for Mary.

One for Rosie.

All of them came from his gun, and he was the one to pull the trigger, time after time.

Neither of them screamed, they just looked at John with sad faces. Sherlock cried, eyes red. Mary shook her head, disappointed. Rosie reached out for him with chubby, little hands. The bullets tore through their bodies.

He was the one to feel the pain. He knew what it felt to be shot. This was worse.

They looked at him, clutching their chests, blood gushing out between fingers and against pale skin.

_I love you._

_We could have been a family._

_Daddy, please._

 

John woke up, gasping but his lungs didn’t fill with air. He wanted to struggle, to kick off the duvet. He felt hot and cold. couldn’t move. couldn’t breathe. Maybe, that was worse than the nightmare. It was real.

Large, tender hands touched his shoulders. He was pulled against Sherlock’s chest.

“It’s okay, John. We were fine, Rosie and I. It’s okay.” Sherlock whispered into his hair, over and over. “You are hyperventilating. You’re not getting enough oxygen. You are a doctor; you know how this works.” Sherlock started rubbing his back, and when the tears came, John clutched his partner’s shirt with shaking hands.

This wasn’t the first time he had had this nightmare. They’d gotten worse since he and Sherlock started dating three months ago. He had, in the beginning, tried to hide them, but he was dating the world’s only consulting detective. Against all expectations, it was good to have him, to be held by him once he woke up.

John felt guilty, and his unconscious turned that into pictures of horror. He felt guilty for Mary shooting Sherlock, for Mary’s death, but also for what he had done in the morgue, as Culverton Smith had watched.

And he was afraid to disappoint his daughter more than anything.

Sherlock understood. What more could John ask for?

He cried for a while.

He calmed,  as he always did.

When Sherlock brought a sleeping Rosie to their bed, John held her close to his chest. There was no blood on her pyjamas, only a smear of toothpaste.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered into her hair. “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m afraid your Daddy is a little broken.” She sighed in her sleep, and her peacefulness, her unconditional trust in him, made a few more tears slip from his eyes.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around both of them. That was, how John fell asleep.

Those were the worst nights. They were rare.

 

* * *

 

**SH**

Sherlock crawled into bed around two, not feeling particularly tired, but looking forward to holding John.

Nights, now more than ever, were the time for him to do experiments. He had a deal with John that whatever he did he would clean up before Rosie was awake. It made long term chemical processes quite difficult, but he still had some mould and human fingers stored away in one of the cupboards. John had even given him a lock and key for it.

There were a few more little adjustments, now that John was back in Baker Street, and especially with Rosie. No more screeching the violin after eight pm and before seven am, the gun had to be locked away at all times, simple things that Sherlock was quite happy to do if they meant he could have John back.

That didn’t mean that he had to stop being himself. He could torture the violin for hours as soon as John and Rosie had left the flat or walk around in a sheet -or less- all day.  And maybe, just maybe, he had taken the picture of the skull of the wall three days prior, and fired five shots, before locking the gun away, again. John would never check, of that Sherlock was sure.

For now, the time of mischief was on hold, as Sherlock wrapped an arm around his sleeping boyfriend. He could not see much in the darkness of the room, but he knew John’s face well enough for his brain to fill in every part hidden in shadow.

John Watson was beautiful, and the fact that John didn’t see, or didn’t care, made Sherlock incredibly sad sometimes. As much as they might have found him to be a provider, a nice chap, Sherlock doubted that John’s previous partners had ever told him how handsome he was. That, of course, was only more proof of how stupid people were, really.

John hummed in his sleep, turning to press against Sherlock’s side, seeking warmth.

“I can hear you thinking.” He murmured, and Sherlock found himself surprised to find him awake.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock’s hand found the skin of John’s back under his shirt.

“No. Yes, maybe.”

Sherlock chuckled, pressing his mouth against John’s scalp.

“That was every possible answer to that question, John.” He teased.

John rubbed at his eyes for a moment, before sitting up a bit, weight resting on his right arm. His eyes were searching Sherlock’s face in the dark. “Yes, you woke me up. Your toes are cold. No, I don’t mind being awake, when you are in my bed.”

Sherlock leaned up for a kiss. “Technically, it is my bed. I bought it.” He whispered against John’s lips, which caused an impromptu wrestling match.

It ended in giggles, and with John straddling his hips. “Well,” his fingers travelled down his neck to his chest, where they circled a nipple. “I could always move in with Rosie, if you’d prefer to have YOUR bed to yourself.” John said, with a wink, but there was a growl to his voice that changed the mood from Sherlock wanting to giggle, to wanting to moan.

Their sex life so far had been wonderful. Form their first sexual encounter, which Sherlock had enjoyed immensely, things had only improved as they learned each other’s bodies. Sherlock, as was his habit as a scientist, had done some research.

Regular sex, he had read, was a key factor in a happy relationship, and most couples had sex once a week. They were right on schedule of that Sherlock made sure. Even with Rosie around Sherlock had been able to have John in his bed, or in the shower, and one thrilling time on the living room floor, every week since they had started dating three and a half months ago.

Sherlock wanted a happy relationship, and, coincidentally, he really enjoyed the sex.

“John?”

“Yes, darling?” Sherlock liked the endearments as well.

“Do you think it would be possible to have sex twice a week? Or three times, even?”

“What?” John shifted away for a moment, and Sherlock pressed his eyes close to shield them from the onslaught of light, as John switched on the small lamp on his bedside table. “What are you talking about?”

“Intercourse. According to studies, couples have it once a week, which we have. Would more be possible, or is it too much to ask for?”

John’s eyes went wide, and a small line appeared on his forehead. A moment later, he was giggling, the bed shaking under the onslaught of laughter.

“God, Sherlock.” He wiped away a wet spot from his cheek. “You… For the past months, you made sure had sex once a week didn’t you? The times you turned me away, which is fine by the way, and the times you woke me up in the middle of the night, which were much more than okay, that way… Oh Sherlock, you idiot genius.”

Sherlock wanted to pout, to turn away and hide his embarrassment, but accepted John’s lips against his own instead. His mouth still tasted slightly of toothpaste, but more of sleep and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John to pull him close.

“Sher, my love,” John whispered, his breath hot against his ear. “I don’t care about studies, or your research, sorry to say. We can have sex as much as you want, darling. Once, twice, three times a week, god, three times a day if we find a good babysitter.”

“But the internet suggested, that to have a happy relationship, one should…”

“Shut up.” John bit his shoulder, their fingers intertwining.

“Make me.”

 

 


	2. *explicit*

**JW**

John Watson, although he had always prided himself on being a good lover and having experimented a lot in his youth, had never sucked cock before getting together with one Sherlock Holmes. He had never had an interest in that sort of thing.

But Sherlock’s cock was a thing of beauty, only beaten by the very man himself, and John  enjoyed having it in his mouth. And now, having convinced his boyfriend they could have sex more than once a week, he deserved a little treat.

So did Sherlock.

He had the detective sitting up against the headboard, while John was propped up on one elbow, the other hand wrapped around the base of Sherlock’s cock. The noises he made, god, John could get drunk on them alone, his hips moving against his own volition and against the mattress.

He was teasing, both himself and Sherlock as if it was not two in the morning and their child would make them get up in roughly four hours. John sucked in the head of Sherlock’s lovely, lean, pink cock back into his mouth, lips forming a tight circle, as his tongue pressed against the underside of his shaft.

“John.” Long fingers found his hair and he was gently pulled up and off his prize, only reluctantly letting go. “John, come here.” And how could John resist those words, that mouth. Their lips met in a desperate kiss, and Sherlock’s mouth was just as lovely and pink. John kissed him, still not used to the idea that he could just do that, be with Sherlock Holmes whenever he wanted.

“John.” Sherlock moved only a few milimetres away, to speak against John’s lips. “John, could we have penetrative sex?” Sherlock would never understand that most people didn’t dare to just say what they wanted, and John loved that about him, to not have to guess.

“Absolutely.”

“With you being the penetrator, this time. I quite feel the need of you inside me, currently.” Sherlock kissed him again, slow and wet.

“You’re just being lazy.” John teased but reached for the lube that they had tucked between the mattress and headboard, anyway. He felt Sherlock’s chuckle more than he heard it. “Maybe. Now John, get on with it.”

 

* * *

 

**SH**

Sherlock, quite opposite to Irene Adler’s estimations, had had sexual experiences as a young man. No one had ever made love to him though, not like John Watson did.

Sex was simple. It required two bodies, or possibly more if one were into that sort of thing, and certain body parts. In the end, their sex live mostly contained of an erect penis sliding into an anal cavity repeatedly, after a smaller or larger degree of preparation. They switched, sometimes, and changed positions, but none of that felt like the reinvention of the wheel. Still, somehow, being with John never felt boring or repetitive. There was so much to discover, so many places to touch and angles to try, so much love to share. There was the teasing and banter, and sometimes the confessions of love, tender words. Being with John was pure fun, beyond the bodily component, and so much fondness Sherlock more than once thought he might burst.

It was good, then, to be held by John, to see all the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, mirrored back. They were in this together, equal parts of a puzzle that fit together.

Now, as John’s very erect penis slid into him repeatedly, Sherlock thought how he would have never taken to heroin had he known what John Watson could do with a much less lethal but just as addicting drug that was his body.

“John?”

“Mhm, what is it, baby?” John’s use of endearments increased during sex; another thing Sherlock liked more than he would ever admit.

“I think we should frequent this position during the next few years. I am afraid I won’t be able to bend in half quite as well in the future.” He meant that quite earnestly. He was forty already, and who was to say that he could always keep his transport as flexible as it currently was? But John just chuckled and looked at him with a look that said how fond he was of him. Sherlock liked that look very much.

“Mad man.” John leant forward to kiss him, his hips finding the rhythm they both preferred, varying short, fast thrust with deeper, slower ones, just to tease them. Sherlock could bring himself to the edge quite quickly then. He knew from experience that John, ever the gentleman, would hold back and wait for him, so Sherlock stopped teasing and let go, John’s name on his lips.

 

 

* * *

 

**SH**

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“What are those red crosses in our calendar”

“Well, since our quite eye-opening conversation, our sexual encounters have doubled, even tripled some weeks. I had been keeping record, of course.”

 

“Idiot.”

 

* * *

 

**SH**

For the first three months of their relationship, John and Sherlock had stuck strictly to their plan of finding a way back together. They had kept up their afternoons at the park, Sherlock had consulted John for his medical opinion, and they went out on dates sometimes, after Rosie had gone to bed. They explored each other’s bodies, and John stayed over at Baker Streets many nights. It felt like the natural progression for them to want to live together again, no need for tricks on Sherlock’s part. The frequent babysitting and John moving back to Baker Street made it obvious to Mrs. Hudson that their relationship status had changed. She was a very observant woman, but never commented on it, just smiled at them.

Sherlock, just assumed that everybody else would find out as well, no need for big announcements. They were quite smitten with each other after all, and even Anderson had enough brains to see that. He would find out how wrong he was about that.

Lestrade stormed into the flat at 7:24 in the morning, hair already ruffled and dark circles under his eyes. Sherlock was currently convincing Rosie that Toast and Jam were a wonderful way to start the day, even though, in retrospect, he really was the wrong guy for the job. The only way he ever enjoyed jam, in fact, was when John’s lips tasted of it, which was the case every morning. Still, he tried his best, while John got ready for work.

“Morning, Sherlock.” The DI didn’t wait for an answer after rapping at the door and made his way into the kitchen. “Oh, Hello Rosie. How you have grown.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You seem more enthusiastic about seeing her, although I have to assume you came here to see me.”

“I am. You know why? She doesn’t make annoying comments early in the morning.” Lestrade stroked her hair. “And yes, I’m here about a case. Triple homicide. I can just keep the crime scene active for an hour. Would you…?”

Sherlock picked up another piece of toast with his fork and held it out for Rosie. “I’m quite busy, Gustav, as you can very well see.”

“Sherlock. I’m sure John appreciates your help with this, but three people are dead, and…” He was interrupted by John, who stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in the green trousers Sherlock secretly loved, and a plaid shirt. “I’ll be off then, Sher… Oh, hi, Greg.” The doctor turned to their friend. “Case?”

“Morning, John. Hmm, yes. A six, at least. Mr. Detective doesn’t seem interested though.”

Sherlock huffed. “I did not say that, Geoffrey. I am on nursery duty today. That means, I will get Rosie ready, drop her off and then I can come and solve your case. That means, you will have to convince whoever to wait a little longer, before they start ruining all the evidence with their meddling around.”

Lestrade looked surprised. “Oh, yeah, sure. I’ll do my best.”

John, meanwhile, picked up his bag and leaned down to kiss Rosie on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, darling. And you two will tell me everything about the case for the blog, yeah?”

“You’re back to blogging?”

“I thought about going back to it. I miss writing, to be honest. Not him nagging me about it, though.” He grinned. “Let’s go out for pints someday, mate. We haven’t done that in ages.”

Lestrade nodded. “Sure. I’d love to.” He accepted a pet on the back from John, before the doctor stepped over to Sherlock. “I’ll see you later, yeah? I’ll pick up Rosie, then you have all the time to let out your inner genius, alright?”

“Alright.” Sherlock tilted his head down to accept a quick kiss, ad watched as his boyfriend left the flat.

“Oh, bloody hell, the two of you.” Lestrade’s eyes had gone wide. “You’re dating? Like… really dating?”

Sherlock blushed at the words but managed to hide it quite well behind mean words. “How you became Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, when you are as observant as burnt toast is still a surprise to me every day.”

As expected, his friend just chuckled. “Yeah, alright. It’s just, I mean, I observed the chemistry between the two of you. It’s been there from the beginning. I just thought you two would never act on it, ever.”

Now, it was Sherlock’s turn to be surprised, but he was spared an answer by Rosie starting to fuss at the lack of toast and jam, which he happily provided.

“Well, congratulations, then. I’ll just make some calls. See you at the crime scene, then.”

Sherlock just waved him off. Who else wasn’t aware of their relationship?

 

* * *

 

 

**SH**

He tested the waters with Molly. She had always been a good victim for his social experiments, because in her own awkwardness, she rarely realised she was being tested. As they looked one of the corpses, a forty-three-year-old man, who had been tied to a tree, naked, next to the bodies of his ex-wife and current girlfriend, Sherlock dropped a comment he had prepared word for word.

“Is it appropriate to buy one’s boyfriend flowers for their birthday?”

Molly reacted, as he had suspected, with confusion. “Ahm, I’m not sure. I mean, I like getting flowers. Tulips are my favourite. Dan got me tulips last week. He is very sweet. Not sure, men like it, too. Why are you asking? Did the girlfriend of our friend here buy flowers?” She pointed at the body whom Sherlock was just taking hair samples from.

“Oh, no. It has nothing to do with the case. I’m just making conversation. Isn’t that what people do?”

Molly smiled. “They do. You don’t, you never do.”

“Well, I am now. So, should I get my boyfriend flowers for his birthday?”

“Your… your boyfriend?”

“I hate repeating myself, Molly. Yes, my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t know you were dating anyone.” She looked sad at that, but it was an old sadness, a scar not just yet completely healed, but the wound was gone.

“Didn’t John tell you?”

“John?”

“Yes, John, my boyfriend. So, flowers, or no flowers?”

She took a step back from the body, but unexpectedly, she recovered quicker than Lestrade had.

“Flowers, definitely.”

* * *

 

**SH**

Having found the two conversations about his relationship quite dull, Sherlock decided he did not want to go through them again. As he returned to the empty flat, he sent the following text to a group of people.

_Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes. I am hereby informing you, that I have taken on a romantic relationship with John H. Watson three months ago. It is quite fulfilling, and I would describe myself as happy. All congratulations or other forms of acknowledgement are unnecessary and annoying. SH_

Mummy, after trying to call him four times, texted back:

_Oh, honey, that is wonderful. So happy for you two. Come and visit us soon, will you? Hugs and kisses, Mother & Father. _

Mycroft was less enthusiastic.

I was already aware. MH

Irene Adler took her time, then send a peach and eggplant emoji.

_Finally!_

Sebastian Wilkes, the jealous bastard, just blocked him.

John sent a voice message.

“God, that John guy must be a lucky fellow. I wanna punch the guy, to be honest.” He chuckled, and Sherlock heard London traffic in the background. “Very cute message, though. I’m thinking Angelo’s tonight, to celebrate?”

Sherlock put away his phone after that. Good thing he did not have any more friends or acquaintances.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> having one of those weirds days… I should have stayed in bed. Maybe this at least made some of you happier :)


	3. Chapter 3

**JW**

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I can’t believe you. What were you thinking? Forget that, you probably weren’t thinking at all.” John was pacing along the sofa in large steps, hands combing through his hair in frantic movements.

“I don’t even know why you are angry, John. It was quite the successful day. I solved a seven, and in only two hours. I am quite impressed with myself actually.”

That seemed to be the wrong answer, because John was turning even redder.

“Of course. Of course, that is the only thing you care about. Your case. Brilliant, actually brilliant. But this is about my daughter, whom you were supposed to take care of.”

“Firstly, I am quite hurt by the fact that suddenly she is your daughter when you referred to Rosie as our daughter before, a statement that I am taking quite seriously and am very proud of achieving. Secondly, I did take care of her.”

Sherlock did not move from where he was sitting in his chair, which made John even more furious.

“I picked her up at the nursery, we had lunch.”

“And then you decided that your case was more important.” John stopped to stare at him, at that point in his fury where he seemed calm.

“I did not. Lestrade called me, and I asked Mrs. Hudson to watch her for a while. I didn’t just leave her at a flat on her own, or take her to a crime scene, which I considered. But then I thought that seeing a body hanging from a ceiling could be quite traumatizing. No, let me speak. I left her with our landlady, a woman we would trust with our lives, and whom she adores. So, what is your problem? … Oh!

“Oh, bloody what?

“You still feel guilty.”

John huffed. “This is not about me, Sherlock. It’s about you. You just handed her off to the next person.”

“Which is something you still feel guilty about, John, because it was what you did when you grieved for Mary. You hate that you couldn’t cope with your child for a while. It is quite difficult, though, to be angry at oneself. I forgive you for directing it at me. I am, as your partner, quite the obvious choice.”

John huffed, shoulders slumping. His gaze went to the floor, then up at Sherlock again.

“Shut up, and hug me, will you?” He said, voice quiet.

Sherlock got up, then, and hugged him. John buried his nose against his shoulder. “I’m going to talk to Matt about this, I think. I’m still so scared of hurting her. She is … She is so depended on us. It’s scary, Sherlock.”

“It is. I understand. Let’s get her from downstairs. I promised her a bubble bath.”

“Sounds lovely. I think I could use one of those, as well.” John smiled.

“I’m sure, she’ll share. She is a kind girl. She got that from you, her kindness. And I know, those words won’t help much. I can still tell you, that she won’t remember the time she spent away. What she will remember is all the time you spend with her. You are a good father.” He kissed the top of John’s head, and the doctor whipped a tear from the corner of his eye.

“You are a good man, and I love you.” Sherlock whispered. “Even though you are an idiot.”

And John started giggling.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

John stared at himself in the mirror, fingers combing through his beard in doubt. There wasn’t really a reason to shave it off. He liked it, Sherlock probably liked it, or else he would have complained about it every day, and Rosie was quite used to her dad having a beard now.

But then, as he had opened the bathroom cabinet, his razer had fallen into the sink and John had picked it up. It was still resting in his palm, now.

A knock on the door, and a moment later, Sherlock entered. He was carrying a still sleepy Rosie. “John, the little Miss wants… oh. Are you shaving it off?” He stepped closer, and Rosie reached out for him.

“Good morning, little love.” John greeted her, accepting a wet toddler kiss to the cheek. “Not sure. Maybe now that I’m back here, I should.”

“Can I?”

“So, you think I should?”

“I think you want to.”

John rubbed at his chin. “Yeah, I think I do.” He picked up the shaving cream. “Will you do me the honour?”

Sherlock made him sit at the edge of the tub, as Rosie played with two plastic cups, and began to spread the shaving cream over his cheeks and jaw in slow circles.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Not shaving for Sherlock Holmes, this time?”

“No, not quite.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well then, let’s see what’s underneath.”

With that, he placed the blade close to John’s cheek bone.

For a while, the only sounds were Rosie’s babbling, the clinking of the cups and the sound of the blade against John’s skin. The doctor closed his eyes, giving himself into the trusting hands of Sherlock Holmes.

He almost got startled, when Sherlock finished the shave by pressing a soft kiss on his cheek. “Done.” He whispered, before whipping away the excess shaving cream. John slowly opened his eyes, blinking, as he had to get used to the brightness of the room. Rosie’s babbling got closer, as she wobbled over. She looked at him suspiciously, as he picked her up, then grabbed his cheek in a less than gentle way, not knowing of her own strength just yet.

“Daddy?” She tilted her head, her tongue peeking out between her frowning lips. “Off?”

John smiled at her, combing his fingers through her curls. “Hmm, yes, Sherlock shaved it off. Do you like it?”

“Pretty.” Rosie nodded, and John knew that pretty was just her favourite word at the moment, and she referred to anything and everyone as pretty. Still, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“I agree. Very pretty.” Sherlock took the two steps from the sink, where he had been cleaning the razor, to the tub, where he knelt down. “I prefer my doctor’s clean-shaven, after all.”

John chuckled. “I should have realised, then. You always made it quite obvious, didn’t you?”

“I did. But as always, you saw, but you didn’t observe.” 

Rosie reached out for Sherlock, and John transferred her into his arms. “Quoting yourself, are we?”

He didn’t get an answer, except for a low chuckle, as Rosie was now grabbing at the detective’s face. “Off, Lock.” She commented.

“Hmm, yes. I can barely grow a beard anyways, And it looks ridiculous on me.”

John watched their interaction for a moment, before getting up to consult the mirror. The man staring back, was different from all the versions of himself he had ever seen, but somehow, he felt the most John Watson of them all.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

John woke up on his birthday to an empty bed. It wasn’t uncommon, and he had planned to ignore his special day, anyway. At his age, getting even older didn’t feel worth celebrating. And Sherlock wasn't big on birthdays either, expect for Rosie’s maybe.

So, he just got up and took a shower, after checking the baby phone to make sure Rosie was still asleep. He heard Sherlock in the kitchen, and just wrapped his dressing gown around himself, before he went looking for him.

He found a bouquet of flowers instead, sitting on their kitchen table in a vase he didn’t know they owned. “Red cloves are a sign of passion, whereas the white ones stand for loyalty.” Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, chin resting on his stapled fingers.

“For me?” John asked, stupidly. No one had ever gotten him flowers, and he hadn’t missed it so far. But the thoughtfulness Sherlock had put into this, warmed his heart.

“Yes. Happy birthday.” The detective got to his feet and walked over. John was very happy to accept a kiss, that turned passionate quickly. “The second part of my present is oral sex.” Sherlock grinned. “I just made that up, actually. I do have a second part to my present, though.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders to kiss him, the front of his dressing gown falling open, as he pulled on the string. “I’d be happy with just the blow job, darling.” He grinned.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

“What is the third part of my present, then?” John traced Sherlock’s collar bone with his finger, wiping away the sweat that had gathered there. This was already the best birthday he had had in decades, and it wasn’t even eight am.

“I thought you didn’t want it.”

“I didn’t expect any presents, to be honest. But yeah, I’m curious to know.”

Sherlock reached for his bedside table and pulled out an envelope. As he opened it, the picture of a small cottage fell out. John picked it up and tilted his head, so he could look up at Sherlock.

“I thought, we could have a little holiday, get away from the noise of the city. Rosie would love it. I chose a holiday home that has a playground and ponies and …”

The rest of the sentence was cut off by John kissing him.

“Oh god, yes.” He whispered. “I’d love that.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Amelia, my wonderful and very patient beta reader <3

**SH**

Sherlock’s lungs were burning, as he forced himself onwards through the brightly lit Streets of Central London. They had passed Piccadilly Circus, as Marcus Hamilton had tried to blend into the masses, and were now on their way towards Trafalgar square. Sherlock was about fifty feet behind the suspect, and still recovering from the blow to the head. Still, he forced himself further, not wanting to let a man go, who had hurt a little boy, and killed his mother.

They had gained attention from the people around them, as they made their way through, one brave man, who seemed to have recognized Sherlock, even tried to step into Marcus Hamilton’s way, but was pushed to the ground, forcing Sherlock to jump over him.

The distance grew larger, and Sherlock’s head was hammering with a headache. Where was the incompetent Scotland Yard in moments like this?

As Marcus turned left, and then right again, the streets got narrower and only a few people passed them. Sherlock wanted to scream at them to get out of his way, to call the police, but trying to keep up with a man, who trained for marathons, was all he was capable of right now.

He had to watch him disappear down the stairs of Charing Cross station. Now, Sherlock also had to work against the schedule of public transport.

As he sprinted down the escalators toward the platform, the train was just opening his doors. Instead of freedom, though, Hamilton walked into the arms of John Watson.

Oh, Sherlock had rarely been happier to see his companion, and he allowed himself to crouch down and catch his breath.

Sherlock couldn’t hear what John was saying, probably something quite badass, or if Hamilton answered, but he saw how sexy John looked with a gun, very much the soldier.

A moment later, Lestrade and his people finally arrived, and the murderer was transferred into their custody. John crouched down next to Sherlock, hands cupping his face, so he could look at the wound at the side of his head, which was still slightly bleeding. “You won’t need stitches. That’s the good news.” The doctor said. Then, the boyfriend pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying this public display of affection more than he would ever admit.

“Let’s go home, yeah?” John pulled him to his feet.

“It’s good to have you back on cases.” Sherlock answered. “Yes, let’s go home.”

* * *

 

**JW**

With Sherlock being hurt on a case, John felt the time for the promised holiday had come.

 He saw it as a gesture of love that Sherlock agreed immediately, only asking John for permission to take his laptop so he could solve cases when everyone else was asleep. Who was John to refuse him when the detective said ‘please’?

They were able to book the cottage for a week, five days after the incident with Marcus Hamilton, and John started packing. He wouldn’t need much, but toddlers always travelled with what seemed to be the whole content of their wardrobes. He had asked Sherlock to get his own suitcase, but when it wasn’t packed an hour before they had planned to leave he just tossed a few suits into a bag, just to teach his boyfriend a lesson. That’s when, between the dress shirts, he spotted the jewellery box. He could not resist opening it.

“Fuck.” John couldn’t hold back the curse. This was not good, not at all. Firstly, because he had never thought about Sherlock and considered marriage. It just seemed to absurd for the self-proclaimed sociopath, even though he was a wonderful friend and even better partner... but wanting to tie the knot? No... Sherlock didn’t believe in the concept of marriage, that much John knew, so why would he have a ring hidden away in his closet?

Secondly, even _if_ Sherlock and him ever considered marrage, John had just assumed He’d be the one to ask. His first proposal to the wrong person, had gone horribly wrong itself, but he was sure he could do better. It would even be fun to secretly plan something... a challenge to do something behind Sherlock’s back.

Thirdly, they had only been dating for a few months and agreed to take it slow, to get to know each other better. Why would Sherlock want to speed things up now?

John heard his flatmate approach, when it was too late to hide the box, or sculpture his face into pretending nothing was wrong, as if Sherlock could be fooled. So, instead, he slowly turned to look at him.

“This is quite unfortunate, then.” The detective said, after a moment of awkward silence. “And my fault, I presume. I should have known you would pack for me.” John shook his head, even though he knew his boyfriend was right. This could have been avoided, really, had the suitcase already been waiting in the living room. “I shouldn’t have…just gone through your stuff.” John turned the jewellery box between his fingers in a nervous gesture, as his eyes skimmed over Sherlock’s body. They both were tense.

“I should explain myself.” The detective looked down at his hands. John hated to see him so uncomfortable and felt the need to embrace him. He held back and let him speak. “I spotted the ring at a jeweller a few days ago. I wasn’t looking at rings actually, but I saw it and I liked it. Somehow, in its simplicity and beauty, it reminded me of you, and I thought, should I ever ask you to marry me...well, I would do it with exactly that ring.” He looked up,  blushing slightly, and John reached out for him, placing the small, black box on the bed with the other hand. Sherlock let himself be pulled against him, and John reached up to press a small kiss on his lips.

“I am aware that it is too early, too soon after we made it official. We have not yet taken the rose-tinted glasses off. On the other hand, I have loved you for years, and I can't imagine not loving you.”

John had to kiss him, then, hadn’t he? He cupped Sherlock’s face to tilt it down, so he could brush his mouth over his boyfriend’s. “In a few years, when you’ll ask me, I’m going to say yes. You know that, right?”

That put the tiniest, little smile on Sherlock’s face. “I would have to wait a long time for you to forget about the ring, wouldn’t I?”

“Hmm, I’m sure you’ll manage to surprise me, love.” He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest and inhaled his familiar scent. The detective’s arms closed around him. “I’m very surprised you want to get married at all. I thought you hate the concept.”

“So did I. I wasn’t aware it was something I considered until quite recently when I got hurt. I thought then, if anything ever happened to one of us, something serious, being married could be quite helpful. Which was only the initial thought. After I started thinking about it in earnest, I realised I found many more reasons. I should save them, though, for the proposal, don’t you think?”

John smiled against his shirt. “Clever answer. Quite diplomatic.” He teased.

“I could have also pointed out that our train in leaving in twenty-six minutes and that we should leave immediately, to avoid answering at all.”

John swore and stepped back. “Shit. Yeah, we should be going. I’ll get Rosie, yeah? You have five minutes to finish packing.” Placing a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, he hurried out of the room, the almost proposal forgotten for a moment.

* * *

 

**SH**

“God, we need a bathtub like this at home.”

Sherlock chuckled, rubbing his nose against the side of John’s head. “As if we’d ever have the time to use it, John.” He heard his boyfriend’s hum of agreement, as John stretched and then rested his head back against Sherlock’s chest. “This is amazing.”

“You mean the naked cuddling in 36° Celsius water?” Sherlock followed the veins on John’s arm with his fingers, barely touching, and he was sure John would purr if he could.

“Yeah, that is a very accurate description of what we are doing. It’s 37°C, though, I think.”

“No, I am quite sure it is 36°C. I have spent months teaching myself how to…”

“I’m teasing, love.” John turned his head and Sherlock accepted a quick kiss, which turned into a row of kisses that blended together and he felt himself getting lost in the feeling of John’s lips on his.

“Hmm, baby, how about fucking in 37°C water?” John turned carefully, to straddle his hips.

“36..”

“Shut up.”

 

 

* * *

 

**SH**

Sherlock woke up to a quiet flat. Outside, the noise of London was missing, and he considered just staying in bed a little longer to enjoy the birds song when he heard Rosie fussing. In the beginning, the days after the Watsons had moved in, he had felt unsure of how to act in moments like this. He wasn’t her dad, but he wasn’t just a god father either. He lived with her, and he dated her father, and he felt like she was his as much as she was John’s. Sherlock hadn’t known if that was what John wanted him to feel.

Now, months into their life together, Sherlock had found his role, had talked to John about their expectations.

_“You are the love of my life. I want you to be her father, if that is what you want.”_

_“Of course, I do.”_

And that was that. Talking had turned out to be the best way for them to heal, to get even closer, to become a family. The term step parent still felt unfamiliar, stiff, and Sherlock had done some research to find an appropriate name she could use to refer to him. He would have found it weird for Rosie to call him Sherlock, while John was Dad and father seemed very formal in this day in age.

He liked the sound of Papa. Bilabial sounds were one of the firsts Rosie would learn, too, which had its advantages. She had been an expert on vowles from quite an early age, and had started referring to John as Dada. Papa wasn’t far from that. How lovely it would sound from her tiny mouth. Sherlock could teach her to pop the ‘p’, just to annoy John, which would be a lot of fun. He planned to suggest it to John soon, but still felt a little reluctant. He did not want to overstep boundaries, an irrational fear. John wanted him to be Rosie’s father and Sherlock wanted to be. He had never considered having children, knowing they would get part of his DNA and with it the responsibility of being brilliant and maybe lonely. But Rosie, she had John to influence her on being kind and loyal, both with his behaviour and the genetics she had received from him, and maybe Sherlock could be a part of that. He could teach her about chemistry, about experiments, about being a detective.

Before all that, he would just help with the small things. Right now, as she was slowly waking up in her traveling cot, Sherlock got out of bed and picked her up before she would wake John. The good doctor deserved sleep on his holiday.

Rosie and he went to the small kitchen where they looked out the window for a while as Rosie stretched. She was in a bad mood, on the edge of crying.

“Oh, Miss Watson. Are we not quite awake just yet? That is understandable at such an early hour.” Sherlock explained, kissing the blond tufts of hair, regrown after she had lost her first head of hair. She had adorable, little curls, which Sherlock found very adorable and which he liked to smell.

“How about we find ourselves some tea and toast? English Breakfast for me, Camomile for you. Dad has packed some. He is excellent at that, packing things, which is an underappreciated skill. No one would put that in their Curriculum Vitae. They should.”

Sherlock took Rosie to the kitchen counter, talking to her as he made their tea and prepared jam and toast for her. She had started on carrot mush at six months old, and by now wanted to eat everything John and Sherlock ate, with a preference for raspberry jam. As Sherlock placed her plate on the table, Rosie was babbling to him, which was a sign that she was more awake, and the detective talked back, having read that children are more motivated to speak if they feel they are being understood, or at least listened to.

After their breakfast, Sherlock changed her nappy, and, following a spontaneous thought, wrapped her in her blanket and took her outside, into the sunny morning. He felt the cool morning dew under his naked feet and took a deep breath. It smelled very different from London; the air filled with the subtle scent of flowers.

“There is someone I want you to meet, Rosie.” He whispered against her ear. She snuggled against him, wrapped in her yellow blanket, and let him carry her to the back of the house.

* * *

 

**JW**

John stepped into the garden half an hour after the rest of his family had, after finding the cottage empty the only evidence of other human life being the dishes in the kitchen sink. He had wrapped his dressing gown around himself, the mornings still cool as spring progressed into summer. John was not very worried, even thought he knew that with Sherlock Holmes, anything could happen and finding a ransom letter was just as likely as spotting Sherlock chasing a jewellery thief through the small village, they were staying in.

Instead, what greeted him at the back of the garden, was his daughter, wrapped up in her favourite blanket, with only a small tuft of blond hair sticking off of the top, her head resting against Sherlock’s cheek, as he pointed and explained. They both seemed very fascinated, and John stepped closer, until he could hear what the detective was talking about.

“The Queen is the mother to every other bee in the hive and has dedicated her life to keeping it alive. She does not rule them, but produces their young. Not very queenly, if you ask me.” Sherlock shifted Rosie on his hip and pointed at the left beehive.

“Can you see them, as they exit? They are on the way to the flowers, and will return with pollen, to produce honey.”

John watched Rosie reach out her tiny hand. “Oh, no, Miss Watson. We can’t go closer, or we might disturb them. We want to avoid that.” Sherlock took her hand and kissed it, and how could John not go over and wrap his arms around them both from behind and hold them?

 


	5. Chapter 5

**JW**

 

“Dr. Watson. John.”

“Mycroft. Sherlock isn’t here.”

“Oh, I know that. I am here to talk to you.”

“Really? Well, take a seat. Tea?”

“No, thank you. I will have to be quick.”

“What is that?”

“A proposition from someone who wants to buy your house.”

“My house? I… Haven’t thought about the place in a while.”

“I am aware. That is why I am bringing this to your attention.”

“Wait. Three million? We didn’t even pay a third of that. Or a fourth.”

“Well, they want it desperately, or so it seems.”

“This is your doing, isn’t it? Because that place is not worth…”

“Let’s just say, my dear brother would never let me support his family, even though it might be helpful in the future.”

“Mycroft. This... I can’t accept this.”

“You can John, and you will. I will leave you the details. Have a good day, Doctor Watson.”

* * *

 

**SH**

There was a call from Lestrade at three in the morning and for a moment, Sherlock considered telling him to piss off and relax back into John’s warm arms, to bury his nose against John’s neck and take in his scent until it lulled him back to sleep. But then his brain was already sorting through all the information he had been given during the brief conversation with the DI. Carefully, as carefully as his excitement about a beheading in the middle of Hyde Park allowed him to, he slipped out of bed and into his clothes. He wanted to wake John, to drag him out into the night, but he knew they couldn’t find anyone to watch Rosie this early in the morning. 

“Sher?” John lifted his head, clearly trying to figure out what was going on in his brain, still dulled by sleep.

“Case.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to ruffled hair. 

John slurred something that Sherlock interpreted as “Should I come?”

“No baby sitter. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back soon.” 

John hummed and the detective left 221 Baker Street behind.

The cab got stuck in traffic, before even leaving Baker Street due to what seemed to be a minor accident and Sherlock cursed, waiting about ten minutes before getting out close to Portman Square Private Park and walking instead. It took him about fifteen minutes to get to Marble Arch, where a tired looking constable met him and they walked through the dark park, which has been cleared of all people not related to the NSY. The constable grown up near York, single mother of two, allergic to cats, attracted to men at least ten years her senior, despite having little sleep last night was in a chatty mood and Sherlock got more and more annoyed by the minute. He really should have stayed in bed, with John and solved this one on the phone. But then, no matter how much he loved his partner, beheadings were a sight to behold.

“And I loved the blog. So sad Doctor Watson stopped posting, you know? Thought you might not be friends anymore, ‘till I spotted him on the serial strangler case. It’s amazing, seeing the two of you work together. Such chemistry, you know.” She talked on and on, and for once in his life Sherlock was relieved to see Anderson, because it meant they had finally reached the scene of the crime.

“Why in the bloody hell is it dark? Are you idiots not aware that even I need light to actually see the body.” He spat, as he stepped closer. A few people, Anderson being one of them, had torches, but the floodlight that should have been switched on was missing.

“Morning to you too, sunshine.” Lestrade walked over from where he was talking to Donavan. “We’re having trouble with the generators. Should be working any minute now.”

“The incompetence of this…” Sherlock cut himself off before he could say something worse. This is why John should be here. He was better at dealing with people and made it possible for Sherlock to concentrate on the world. Sherlock was calmer around him, too, which was the most important thing, wasn’t it? “Torch.” He commanded, reaching out until one was placed on his palm.

Conductor of light, that’s who he needed, not a stupid torch that was barely enough to not run into a tree. Cursing under his breath, Sherlock stepped into the semi dark of the park. He found the head in the middle of a footpath, as if someone had just dropped it like a piece of gum wrapping. The detective crouched down to inspect it. There was barely any blood, which indicated this was not the scene of the murder, and…

“This is not a real head.” Sherlock got to his feet gracefully, barely containing his anger. “I knew you were idiots, but not knowing a plastic head from a human skull, that level of incompetence is beyond me.” He planned on turning around dramatically and storming off, when someone said his name, calmly.

“Sherlock?”

He would have known John’s voice out from a thousand others, and before his eyes have even accustomed themselves to the light, which was turned on suddenly, he understood.

Mycroft had made sure he the road would be blocked, so Sherlock would be late. The constable was there to distract him, so he wouldn’t notice the fake corpse immediately, and Lestrade had lied to him about the generators, all so that John could surprise him. But why? Why would John be here, at half past four in the morning.

As he turned on his heels, John was kneeling down in the damp grass, Rosie on his arm, who was still looking tired and shielding her eyes from the light.

“Ahm...” Sherlock was lost for words, which never happened.

“Hi.” John grinned, seeming strangely nervous.

“Hi.”

John cleared his throat, reaching into his jacket pocket with his free hand. “I... I know you wanted to do this, had the ring and all, but I thought, if I could surprise you only once…”

“You surprise me all the time, John, that’s why I’m in love with you.” Sherlock interrupted, John’s smile growing wider.

“Well, I’m glad. Special surprise, this time, though.” The doctor held their daughter tighter to him. “Will you come here, love?”

Still confused, Sherlock did as he was asked, taking three large steps towards the Watsons, aware that all of NSY was watching them.

“I’m not good at this, expressing feelings, and honestly, I’m so bloody nervous, I forgot the whole speech I prepared. Also, I think, I should have done the speech first, and got down to one knee after. Already hurts like hell, actually.” John grinned sheepishly. “So, I’m sparing you all the sentiment, Sherlock, and just ask you to please be my husband and share the rest of your life with me, and our wonderful daughter, who loves you just as much as I do.”

“I was looking forward to the beheading.” Sherlock cursed himself, because that was not what he had wanted to say at all.

“Yeah, sorry about tricking you on that, Sher.”

“Beheadings are rare these days, at least in European Countries. People rarely have access to the appropriate weapons and there are so many easier ways of ending a life. I am quite fascinated by beheadings for just that reason, they always promise a good puzzle. Still, I find myself preferring this to a headless body, or a bodiless head, either way.” Sherlock did not stop to breathe, blabbering on, brain throwing thoughts at him quicker than his mouth could keep up.

“Is that a yes, then?” John, wonderful, brilliant John, didn’t seem the slightest bit annoyed at his outburst.

“Yes.” Sherlock looked at his shoes, then up at John’s lovely face. “Yes, it is a yes.” He breathed. As his knees hit the ground, Sherlock felt John’s arm wrap around him, pulling their foreheads together. “I love you.” They said, at the same time, grinning a moment later, as the crowd around them erupted into applause. Everything else happened in a haze, then. Rosie was transferred into his arms, and he smelled her hair to calm himself, as she snuggled against him. A moment later, John placed the ring on his finger, a small, silver band.

“Now, we both got one.” He whispered, kissing Sherlock’s forehead.

“Well, you’ll have to find yours first. It isn’t in the wardrobe anymore.”

“Mad man.” John chuckled, and pulled him to his feet, and Sherlock did not care about the people around him, about Gavin and Donavan, Anderson and the annoying constable. Overwhelmed with love for his conductor of light, his doctor, his best friend, the love of his life, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s in a kiss that was not nearly enough to express how much John Watson meant to him.

 

* * *

 

**SH**

Sherlock sat at the edge of the bed, left bare and covered in dust. He never thought he would return to this place again, and the occasion was a weird one. He trailed the fingers over the mattress.

“I guess, this is goodbye, then?” He said into the empty room.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by his own anger, which he wasn’t aware he still had. “I liked you, you know. From the moment I met you, I thought you were clever and witty, and I liked your smile. It seemed honest, then, and I was so angry with myself for not seeing through it. I wanted to be your friend. I thought, if I were your friend, John would at least have a reason to talk to me now and again. I would have done anything for him, but that wasn’t enough, because you had done everything to help yourself.

He shook his head at the memories floating through his mind palace, all of them gathering in the front room at once, threatening to overwhelm him. Where did this anger come from? He had thought it long gone.

“I hated this house, you know. I had only been here once, before you died. You brought Rosie home that day, and humiliated John by completely ignoring his wish to name her after his mother. Did you know that he lost his mother at only eleven years old? I did, even though he doesn’t know I do. It made me mad, furious, to be honest, that he had chosen you when you never deserved him. You lied about who you were, you broke his heart.” Sherlock jumped to his feet, starting to pace the room. “And I know, that maybe I don’t deserve him either. But I would never hurt John intentionally. Never. I did not know then, that he would be hurt by me jumping of Barts hospital. I never thought I would have a friend.”

Stopping by the window, Sherlock wiped at the tear threatening to make its way down his face.

“Quite the emotional outburst, that. I apologize. I guess I just have been quite sentimental for the past few days.” He smiled at this. “He asked me to marry him last night. I had a ring hidden in my wardrobe, which he knew about, so I didn’t suspect anything.”

There was a noise downstairs, and Sherlock straightened his shoulder.

“So, maybe this is goodbye, not only to your house, but to you, Mary Morstan. Let’s not be angry, shall we? I should thank you for giving your life to save mine. And for your wonderful daughter, which I have the privilege of raising.”

“Sherlock, love?” He turned to the door. “I’m ready downstairs. Can you help me with the bed?”

And Sherlock nodded, so they could finally leave this house behind them.

 

* * *

 

**JW**

Sherlock and Rosie were waiting in the car, and John knew he should hurry and join them, so they could go home.

He had not been here in over almost a year, not since moving back to Baker Street, he hesitated to just slam the door behind him and leave.

For some time he had believed, he would spend the rest of his life here, first with his wife and daughter, then as a single dad. And then Sherlock Holmes had come and swept into his life, turning it upside down all over again.

“You’re a lucky bastard, John Watson.” He muttered to himself at the memory of Sherlock at his doorstep in the middle of the night.

John turned, to look at all the bare floors and empty walls, fidgeting with something in his shirt pocket. There was still something he wanted to do before leaving this house behind. Approaching the fireplace, John found a little nick in the wood surrounding it. The gold band fit in perfectly.

“It’s the last step in beginning a completely new life, you know. I’m happy, where I am. Happier than I was here.” He said to the empty house, after taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mary, that I was never this happy with you. It’s not your fault.” His thumb grazed over the wood for a moment. “I just loved him so much. From the beginning.” John smiled sadly at that. For how many years had he tried to not feel that way towards his flat mate?

Turning away abruptly, John left the wedding band lodged in the fireplace, hidden away. The click of the front door ended what had been his life here and John now only had the present to enjoy and the future to look forward to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally finished writing this paart :) I'll post the epilogue soon


	6. Epliogue

**RWH**

Rosie stared at the back of the woman’s head, quite fascinated by the delicate braids and knots only being held together by a small, golden hair clip. She wondered, if Daddy might be able to recreate that on her, once her hair was long enough. Daddy was good with braids in general, something to do with his surgeon hands.

Only when the woman, Tanja, mentioned her name, did Rosie focus back on what she was saying.

“At five years old, Rosamund in our youngest soloist tonight. She started lessons with us six months ago, and tonight, she is playing a song that is very special to her. Please welcome to the stage, Rosamund Watson-Holmes, and her song ‘Home’, composed by her Papa, Sherlock Holmes.”

Rosie was told to wait until Tanja left, until she stepped on stage, but she could barely wait to get out there and play. They rehearsed all of this in the afternoon, when to wait, when to start playing, but it is different now, with all the people looking at her and the bright lights, that made it difficult to see beyond the first two rows.

Daddy and Papa had the best seats in the house, of course, and Rosie waved at them, grinning. They were holding hands, and Rosie knew that Papa’s hands were probably shaking a bit. He was very nervous about this, but also very happy. Daddy had explained that to her before she went to sleep last night. And Rosie had told Papa, that she felt the same, when she had climbed into their bed in the morning. Papa was always awake, when she came downstairs, and she loved having cuddles with him until Daddy finally woke up. This morning, Papa had let her practice how to move her fingers on her violin by painting the strings on his arm, just because they had been both too lazy to go and get the instrument from her bedroom.

Daddy had watched for a while, before getting bored and starting a tickle fight. Daddy loved those, and even had them with Papa alone, sometimes at night. Rosie had won, of course, and dragged Daddy to the kitchen after to make them breakfast.

In the afternoon, Papa had helped her with her dress and red coat, and Daddy had braided her hair, before dropping her off at rehearsal.

Now, it was time to play Papa’s song for everyone and Rosie lifted her violin to her cheek, just like Papa had taught her when she was three. She started playing, slowly at first, and when she looked back at her parents, Daddy was crying. Papa explained once, that Daddy was very sentimental and that people sometimes cry when they are very, very happy. Daddy looked happy, and Rosie guessed he was just being sentimental, like Papa said.

The song, Rosie thought, sounded really cosy. She loved cuddling up with Daddy while Papa played it in the living room. She liked that Papa and Daddy were now cuddling, while she played. And Rosie didn’t care that there were so many other people there, she just wanted to play for her parents, her Daddy, who was a strong doctor who made great pancakes and drove her to football practice and read her good night stories, and for her clever Papa, who showed her cool experiments and told her all about the flowers and animals at the park, and picked her up from school and helped her nick biscuits from Mrs. Hudson’s cookie jar.

At rehearsal, Tanja had said that she should bow, and then come backstage. Rosie didn’t want that. When her song finished, she took her violin and walked down the stairs, where she sat down in Daddy’s lap, instrument clutched to her chest, as the audience cheered.

“Well done.” Papa whispered and kissed her cheek, his voice a little shaky.

“So proud of you, rose bud.” Daddy smiled and kissed her temple.

“All the other kids played very boring songs, and they are not very good at it. They’re nice, though, just need more practice.” She could feel Daddy smile against the top of her head. “Can we just go home?”

Papa carefully took the violin from her. “Yes, I agree fully. Let’s go home.”

And they did, 221B waiting for them, like it always did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, that is it for this little story. Thank you all so much for your words of encouragement. I'm already working on something new, but I'd be happy for promts/ideas from you guys <3  
> Have a lovely weekend <3


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